


Lethal Overtime

by Dusty_Forgotten



Series: Mike Schmidt is Done with Your Shit [8]
Category: Five Nights at Freddy's
Genre: Disturbing Themes, Gen, Hallucinations, Horror
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-26
Updated: 2015-05-26
Packaged: 2018-04-01 07:31:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4011175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dusty_Forgotten/pseuds/Dusty_Forgotten
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Mike Schmidt fucks up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lethal Overtime

**Author's Note:**

  * For [The_Idonian](https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Idonian/gifts), [phone guy](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=phone+guy).



Maybe you’re a little fucked up in the head (okay, you _know_ you are) but you’ll take a Monday over a Wednesday any day. If that makes sense?

See, on Wednesdays, Foxy is _just active_ enough you can’t invite Jeremy over (Foxy gives him panic attacks) like you do on Tuesdays, or just play Doom through your shift, like Mondays. No, you have to check Pirate Cove, wherever Freddy is, and flick lights... every five minutes. It’s boring. Hell, you’ve fallen asleep a couple times only to be woken by Chica banging pots and pans (conveniently, instead of screaming before she stuffs you into a suit). One way to counter that would be more coffee, but the only thing worse than being murdered by animatronics is the Fazbear’s Pizzeria restrooms.

You’ve still got time before midnight, so you decide to put in some elbow grease on that moldy and rusted hellhole you’ve been putting off. Cleaning supplies are in the supply closet (camera 3). You grab a jug of bleach off the shelf, slosh it around. Empty. You groan, pushing around rolls of paper towels and bagged soap. There’s a piece of paper stuck between one of the shelves and the wall. You yank it out. It looks like a page out of an instruction manual.

“Part Four: Activity Level... Animatronics are, as default, least active on weekdays when attendance is lowest, growing more active when nearing the weekend. More movement, sing more often, blah blah blah...” You skip ahead a bit. “...Can be modified by manager at any time using a dial on back of endoskeleton, and Freddy Fazbear’s Entertainment Employee ID Number... Damn.” You don’t have one of those, since they stopped issuing them for night guards with turnover so high.

But... You know who does.

Backstage isn’t as disgusting as the toilets, anyway.

The door stays open for Bonnie, or she would just break it down. The stench is horrible- worse than Foxy, and that’s really saying something. You walk around the table cautiously. Both rotted eyes are hanging out of the sockets, out the eye holes of the suit. “Nice to finally meet you.” you greet, and shake the hand of the suit. It’s stuck to the table with blood and various other bodily goops. It’s surprisingly easy to stand this close to a dead corpse. Not just because it’s a dead body, and that doesn’t frighten you at all (Dr. Fischbach used to say something about “dissociation” and “apathy,” but you can’t care to remember). The smell should knock you on your ass, but you can take your coffee black now, because you can’t fucking smell from all the bleach fumes. This job is wrecking you.

You take off the head of the costume. Wow, there is no way you are getting that ID without getting your hands in there like it’s meatloaf.

...

You get it.

You end up needing one of those bags of soap from the supply closet because you’ve used all the soap in men’s _and_ women’s and your hand’s still red. Just thank God he kept it in his shirt pocket, and not pants, otherwise you’d be bathed in body fluid. You hope no one looks too close when you bike home. Pull your coat sleeve down.

Getting to Freddy’s endoskeleton is almost as bad, because you don’t even know what all the gunk inside of him is. Sure enough; there’s a little keypad on his back, so you punch in Phone Guy’s number, and bam boom, a little trap door pops open. There’s a dial with a 0 on one end, and a 20 on the other. It’s sitting at a five right now. You chuckle a little and crank it all the way down. Shit, is it really this easy? All this time, and all you needed was the dead guy? You’ve been risking your neck, wasting time trying to figure out how these fucking things work...

How do they work? You still don’t know. Robots with their dials, think you’re an unsuited endoskeleton, but Foxy hit eight times in a night after you brushed his teeth, and Chica stayed in the kitchen the whole night when you stitched up her arm. They react, they desire.

They feel.

You play too much Doom anyway, you think, and crank him up to 20. You don’t play favourites, either. All of them get it.

Tonight might kill you, but every night here might, and it sure as hell won’t be boring. You head back into the office, Mr. Scott Cawthon (apparently)’s ID in you pocket, and fall into your rolly chair.

The phone rings.

You look up from the tablet currently booting up, and stare at the phone. That’s weird, that hasn’t rung since-

It picks up.

“ _Hello, hello?_ ”

...Since he died. Your coffee slips out of your hand and onto the tile floor.

“ _Wow, you’re just full of surprises, aren’t you? Hey, good job out there. No one really expected anything of you, but here we are. Alive._ ”

Your head feels weird. Heavy. You flick to the Backstage camera, and the suit’s empty. Now’s really not the time for hallucinations- auditory or visual, whichever’s not real.

“ _I’d like to congratulate you, but as it turns out, management called. Funny story, they say they fired you weeks ago. I never heard about that, but corporate isn’t very good at communicating with us little guys, am I right? Just show up to take out the bodies, don’t warn me. At least the kids just think we’re taking out the trash, right?_ ”

This isn’t happening, not now. Not with all the AI turned up. You have to stand up to get your hand in your back pocket. The ID has your name on it.

“ _Anyway, I’m sure you don’t need me to tell you how to do your job by now. Watch those cameras. And hey,_ ” the voice says as you turn to see Freddy standing in the right doorway, “ _don’t work too hard. It’s your last day!_ ”

You should have quit when you had the chance.

**Author's Note:**

> It's been a long time coming, but this covers my last two requests. Don't send any more.
> 
> I'd toyed with the idea of killing Mike, but I didn't think too hard about it until I started receiving threats for not updating, and though I understand they're coming from children TOO YOUNG TO BE READING THIS ANYWAY it really gets my goat. Honestly, looking at what Mike does for a living, his death was inevitable.


End file.
